


Summer's Last Siege

by abogadobarba (daltonfightclub)



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: ADA Carisi, ADA Sonny Carisi, Alternate Universe - Actual LGBTQ Representation lol, Character Study, Getting Together, How Do I Tag, Lawyer Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr., M/M, Post-Episode: s21e01 I'm Going To Make You A Star, as compliant as it can be when we're all clowns, not exactly a reaction fic but let's say it's canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-30 06:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20809865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daltonfightclub/pseuds/abogadobarba
Summary: He tells himself it’s just a learning curve, that this is no different than those months spent bouncing between burroughs looking to find his footing and a sure thing, that it was naïve to expect to walk into a courtroom from the get and command the same respect he’d known as a seasoned detective.He tells himself these things because if he doesn’t, there’s likely nothing that would stop him from marching into the DA’s office and confessing to his own ignorance in thinking this was ever the right move.OR:The one where Sonny Carisi is Manhattan's newest Assistant District Attorney and he just can't catch a break—until he does.





	Summer's Last Siege

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SoundWithinTheSilence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoundWithinTheSilence/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Последняя осада лета](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22393351) by [Chessi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chessi/pseuds/Chessi)

> This one goes out to all my ADA Carisi mutuals. You the real ones. I'm also gifting this to SoundWithinTheSilence who has been the most incredible cheerleader as I've begun this little journey into penning barisi fic. Thank you!!!
> 
> Oh, I'd also like to dedicate this to Sonny Carisi Jr. who really said BARISI RIGHTS!
> 
> I started this before the episode aired, as I intended it to be my last pre-season hurrah (when I thought the show might tank my ADA Carisi dreams), so I've tried to make it as canon-compliant as possible?? That said, I've put a lot of love into this little ditty, so I hope you find something you enjoy!
> 
> If you recognize the words here, it's because, though I may try, I do not own these characters or their stories! Kudos, comments, feedback, questions etc. are always welcome!! xx

_It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn—_  
_ It forces us in summer skies to mourn,_  
_It spoils the singing of the nightingale._

\- John Keats -

There are a finite number of things Sonny Carisi has come to rely on in his life: the sun loafing through the streets with ease and entitlement, swallowing up the city as it rises over the East River; the feeling of cool glass moving under his fingertips as he counts the beads on his late nonna’s rosary; the final surge of adrenaline that pumps through his veins as he kicks down doors and ventures into the unknown beyond; and the depths of his own despair as he confronts life’s most grotesque horrors and the monsters who make them real.

For all that is sure and steadfast, and though Sonny lives his life in service to his faith, even the siren call of Sunday’s sermon bells can’t furnish the same assurances as a long summer’s heat breaking to render the leaves in brilliant shades of amber and sandstone.

See, watching the seasons change comes as naturally to Sonny as the brash accent on his lips, and perhaps it’s a childish nostalgia that leaves him longing for cooler months and heavier coats, but come August’s first fortnight, he begins counting the days until autumn will storm the city and pierce the humid malaise of summer’s worst nightmares, leaving in its wake the crisp promise of a new season and a life renewed.

Imagine his chagrin then when, already two weeks into October, the city is hit with yet another heatwave so wretched that the people and buildings and trains can’t help but buckle under the weight of its crushing swelter. 

The city is besieged and so is Assistant District Attorney Dominick Carisi Jr.

**** 

He makes his way out of the stuffy courtroom into a crowded hall, tugging at his tie in search of a brief reprieve from the stifling warmth. The hallway itself doesn’t offer much by way of respite given that the air conditioning is down throughout the entire building—the entire city, it seems—but the breeze coming through the cracked windows is enough to let him catch his breath for the first time in what feels like _ months_.

It’s not that he’s been run ragged per se, at least no more than in his days spent chasing down leads and perps and reluctant victims alike, but there’s a certain level of precarity to his current situation, a kind of low-grade anxiety that hums in his veins from the moment he wakes before the sun (an old habit from Academy days that he never managed to break), to the moment he throws himself back down on his bed at night—exhausted, and discontented, and more alone than he’s been the whole of his adult life.

Of course the anxiety isn’t really new: try as a person might, there’s no escaping it when rape and homicide and other such unspeakable acts of depravity are as common to your day as delays on the A train or stale coffee from the bodega around the corner. 

No, Sonny is accustomed to hearing his heartbeat in his ears and the doubt in his mind. What he isn’t so familiar with, however, is a jury’s inconsistency, and a judge’s volatility when handing down sentencing, and the hours lost to researching antiquated precedents for cases that might never even make it to the bench, and the patrolmen back at the 16th who look at him like he’s a defector and not, in fact, still working towards the same impossible end: a swift and righteous delivery of justice.

Or, as it seems to be going these days, some bastard resemblance thereof.

He tells himself it’s just a learning curve, that this is no different than those months spent bouncing between burroughs looking to find his footing and a sure thing, that it was naïve to expect to walk into a courtroom from the get and command the same respect he’d known as a seasoned detective, that yes, the past few weeks have been challenging in ways he never expected, but_ for fuck’s sake_, he’s stared down the barrel of a gun and he’s held a woman’s skull together as she bled out onto cold asphalt; he should be able to handle a little verbal sparring with smarmy defense attorneys without breaking out in flop sweat.

He tells himself these things in part because if he doesn’t, there’s likely nothing that would stop him from marching into the DA’s office and confessing to his own ignorance in thinking this was ever the right move; but he also tells himself these things because if he doesn’t—if he doesn’t fill his mind with a steady supply of case law and deposition queries and half-hearted pep talks—he’s afraid his own crippling self-doubt will devour him whole and render him useless to both the DA and the squad he left behind.

So, Sonny marches on as only he can: with his head up, a crease in his brow, and his long limbs falling in step with the duty he has sworn to abide.

He’ll endure it yet.

****

Sonny finds an adequately quiet alcove at the far end of the elevator bank and is needlessly reviewing a file for his next meeting (if he can’t have the experience than hell if he won’t at least be as prepared as possible) when Jack McCoy approaches.

“Sonny Carisi,” he says with that same congenial tone that reminds Sonny _ so _ much of his nonnino, he thinks it may be what convinced him to take the job in the first place. “Just the man I was looking for.”

“Mr. McCoy,” Sonny greets him as he earmarks the page and finally looks up. “I’m pretty sure that’s never actually a good thing.”

He’s unsurprised to see McCoy alone, but eyes the hefty accordian folder in his hand wearily. There’s no reason the DA would be trying a case, at least none that Sonny wouldn’t have already heard about via Carmen or through the regular office grapevine, which can only mean one thing:

More work for Sonny.

“You do learn fast, don’t you?” Jack says deliberately, as if they were words not of his own supposition but instead handed to him by another long ago. Sonny doesn’t quite know what to make of that, but sometimes there is no making sense of Jack McCoy, so he lets it slide.

“I try,” Sonny replies sheepishly. “Don’t exactly have much time to spare, so y’know, I’ve gotta catch up where I can.” He shrugs as if to say, _ What can ya do?_, and shuffles his bag from one hand to another.

“Ah yes, the wheel of justice stops for no man. All we can do is our best to not break it—except when called for, of course.” 

_ Seriously_, Sonny wonders, _ what the hell is he talking about? _

“Speaking of learning,” Jack continues, “O’Dwyer had a personal emergency come up this morning and asked if I might hand off his case to a capable proxy.” 

When Sonny doesn’t immediately respond, Jack prods him: “And here you are.”

“_Executive _ ADA O’Dwyer?” Sonny asks. That can’t be right… _ Can it_? “Don’t get me wrong, sir—I’m honored, I am—but aren’t his cases a little out of my, uh, wheelhouse?” 

It’s an extremely generous phrasing, but really, there’s no good way for Sonny to say, _ That is so far beyond my skill set that I would absolutely fuck it up within minutes, so please, for the love of all that is holy, do not give this case to me _ to his boss’s boss without risking his job and his self-respect.

“Oh, I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit, Counselor. I can think of a prosecutor or ten who’d gladly take your potential over their own track record. ” Jack taps the folder in his hand then, effectively punctuating his point and staving off any protestation to the contrary.

“What’s more is I think you’ll find the defense _ particularly _ compelling, and if what I’ve heard is true, your unparalleled enthusiasm for a well-rounded legal education precedes you.”

Sonny tilts his head in confusion wondering if it was Stone or Cap or maybe even Carmen who’s to blame for planting such ideas in McCoy’s head. 

He doesn’t dare think beyond the usual suspects, hasn’t dared deliberately thinking of _ him _ for months now—Sonny’s found that, dreadful as it may be, the wound left by Barba’s abrupt exit is somehow more crude and painful now that he walks the court’s halls more days than not. 

That is to say, it’s not so much a willful refusal that keeps Rafael Barba out of Sonny’s every waking thought as much as it’s an act of deft self-preservation. 

The truth of the matter is Sonny misses him more than he should, thinks about drinks and dinner and late nights in the office more than he should, wakes up in the middle of the night with an irrepressible urge to call him more than he should, wants to badger him with questions of the law and the heart far more than he should. So no, it can’t be Barba who sings his praises—not when it never was. Not when it never will _ be. _

But whoever _ is _ telling McCoy to pile more onto his plate, Sonny _ will _ find out and he _ will _ seek his revenge–if ever again he has time for anything beyond motions hearings and plea deals, that is. 

All of that aside, Sonny Carisi was never one to turn down a challenge, especially not in the face of such weighted expectations, so he asks, “When’s arraignment?

Jack smiles; he’s had Sonny’s number from the start. “Fifteen minutes.”

A low whistle escapes Sonny’s lips before he can stop it, his eyebrows shooting up foolishly in equal amounts of disbelief. Sonny might be good on his feet—he credits all those undercover stints for that much—but that’s cutting it close, even for him.

“It is the task of a good man to help those in misfortune,” Jack says, interrupting Sonny’s thoughts before they snowball into mild panic.

“What are you,” he asks incredulously, “a fortune cookie?”

“No.” Jack is straight-faced and falsely somber. “But one might say Sophocles was.”

****

As usual, McCoy _ was _right: the case is interesting, if not exactly complicated, and Sonny feels competent enough to see it through. At first glance, it looks like a young kid, just barely fifteen, found himself in the wrong room with the wrong people when a drug sting went down. He’s surprised O’Dwyer took the case at all, but Sonny figures there must be some means to an end buried in the evidence that he’s yet to unearth.

Ten minutes before arraignment, O’Dwyer assures him that, knowing the defense counsel, it’ll be pled out and all he needs to worry about for the moment is setting bail. After hanging up the phone, Sonny is more relieved than he’d care to admit and similarly bolstered by the confidence both McCoy and O’Dwyer seem to have in him.

Sonny’s not sure he deserves it, but under such dire circumstances, he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth: he’ll take whatever he can get wherever he can get it.

Another prosecutor takes her leave from the court, and as Sonny assumes her place at the podium, he glances through O’Dwyer’s notes one last time. He’s already developed a slew of pretrial rituals and has a system for everything from voir dire to the placement of evidence on the prosecutorial table to the way he skims notes before arraignment. Everything that can be planned for is choreographed with a practiced acuity—though he tries not to think of just how or from whom he learned such exacting conventions.

In reality, Sonny often lost hours, if not days, to such fastidious endeavors—standing in front of his mirror scrutinizing Barba’s masterful summations, memorizing every break and breath, practicing the hard stops and delicate lilts, reciting word after word after word until the rift between the sounds they carried and the feelings they evoked and the memories of the man who made them dwindled into nothing more than a devastating ache in the hollow of his chest.

But, Sonny can’t afford to think of any of _ that _now, so he does as any good Catholic boy from Staten Island would do and tucks the hurt away alongside the foolish hopes and maudlin desires he never dared voice.

The ink of his hastily scribbled margin notes are still drying when Judge Karyn Blake says, in an entirely too informal tone, “Counselor, are my eyes deceiving me or are you actually gracing my courtroom with your presence?” 

Befuddled by the non sequitur, Sonny turns his head sharply up towards the bench. He stood before this judge not an hour prior, so he can’t make heads or tails of her comment. O’Dwyer was still on the docket for this case so maybe he should—

“I have to admit,” the Judge says, “I never thought I’d see you standing on that side of my bench.”

_ Okay_, Sonny thinks, _ what the hell is going on? _

“You know what they say, Your Honor—if you live long enough, you really will see it all.” 

_ Barba. _

As was always their way, Sonny hears him before he sees him, and suddenly his feet feel mired in mud. His body isn’t much better off—too bogged down by the humidity in the room and the shock of the surprise to keep up with the pace at which his mind is reeling.

It’s as close to an out of body experience as Sonny’s ever had, matched in surreality only by those few literal life-or-death showdowns which so often came on the last leg of an eighteen-hour stakeout; they always left him feeling sensitive and exposed, like even too harsh a breeze carried the capacity to shatter him completely.

And this? This is a goddamn hurricane.

Rafael _ fucking _ Barba. Of course. _ Of course _ he would drop into _ this _ courtroom during _this _ case on _this _ hellfire day when the heat alone is enough to choke all of Sonny’s better sensibilities. That’s just his luck, really.

Sonny can already feel his hands clamming up where he grips the sides of the podium, his knuckles going white for the effort, when the clerk finally calls their case number. He manages to shake himself free of his stupor and turns from the Judge—slowly, deliberately, dubiously—to see Rafael in the flesh for the first time in well over a year.

It’s not at all surprising to see that he looks better than Sonny remembered—even compared to the most vivid of his many late night dreams. Rafael is perhaps grayer than he once was, which is to be expected, Sonny supposes, but he’s all the more handsome for it. His smooth skin is tanned, he’s dressed as immaculately as ever, and given the casual cant of his shoulders and the rounded glasses perched on his nose, he seems more relaxed than he’s ever been standing before this room. 

That’s just what happens when you have so little left to lose.

It’s infuriating, Sonny thinks, for Rafael to be so calm and collected when he himself is sweating bullets and swimming in his shoes. It’s that twist of a smile though, genuine and playful as it is and bestowed upon Sonny like a long-awaited gift, that really does him in: it’s a greeting, a challenge, an apology. 

Rafael is a _ vision _ and Sonny is _ wrecked. _

The Judge calls forth their attention and ushers them onto the arraignment. Unsurprisingly, Sonny stumbles through the proceedings like it’s his first day as a beat cop, and kicks himself more than once along the way.

And when the judge declares the kid will be released on his own recognizance, Sonny silently vows to never let McCoy exploit his guilt and proclivity for people pleasing again—at least not on the off chance that Rafael Barba could be anywhere near the courtroom.

Speaking of whom, the man is gathering his belongings, and after practically mopping the floor with Sonny’s dignity, looks no worse for the effort. He bids his goodbyes to the judge and a few other familiar faces, and has the audacity to turn to Sonny with pursed lips and a raised eyebrow as he motions towards the courtroom doors before making a hasty retreat.

_ “ _That smug bastard,” Sonny huffs to himself as he shoves his papers into folders to which they surely do not belong. Turns out there’s only so much agony one man can bear, and once Sonny realizes he’s had enough, he storms past the gallery like a man possessed.

He finds Rafael in the hallway casually leaning up against a pillar with a hand in his pocket and his eyes glued to his phone. It’s a sight so common that, if it weren’t for the addition of the glasses and the absence of a gun on his own hip, Sonny would think the last two years had never happened at all.

(And oh, wouldn’t _ that _ be nice?)

Barba must hear the sharp clack of Sonny’s shoes against the marble floor because he looks up just as Sonny rounds the corner. His whole demeanor visibly changes when their eyes meet; a tentative kind of joy dances across Barba’s face and creases the well-earned lines around his eyes. There’s a softness there, a tenderness in Rafael’s gaze that Sonny had long-since buried in the deepest recesses of his own heart for fear he’d never bear witness to it again.

To see it reborn here in this hallway—in the same situation but different circumstances, with years of distance and grief between them—it’s nearly enough to bring Sonny to his knees.

Instead, he steels himself against his quickly diminishing resolve, looks Barba in the eyes and with all the bluster he can conjure, says: 

“All due respect,_ Counselor_, but what the fuck?”

****

The thing is, Sonny Carisi is _ not _ a strong man. Maybe he thought he was back when he was young and had the courage of his convictions to lean on, or when he was a cadet and first felt the life-altering force of a bullet exploding out from the palm of his hand, or even when, in spite of a lifetime’s worth of guilt, he stared a priest in the eye and compelled him to betray the church which for so long gave them refuge.

Sure, Sonny has experienced moments of mettle throughout his life—usually for the sake of another and often to his own detriment—but as he stood under the blissful shade of a leafy canopy watching Rafael Barba procure coffees (iced because, contrary to the scene unfolding, the sun is still glaring and Sonny’s not _ actually _ a masochist), he knew he would never have the strength to turn this man away.

Not for a second time, anyway.

So when Rafael stood in that hallway and looked at Sonny with his eyes wide and searching, when he put his hand on Sonny’s arm and leaned in and said, “Get a coffee with me,” Sonny had no choice but to swallow his pride and follow the man out into the oppressive heat.

(Well, he did so only after haphazardly texting Carmen with a,_ can you pls can give me an hour? something came up—urgent_, to which he received a sly, _ Already taken care of, boss. Say hi for me, okay? _)

Rafael finally makes his way through the late morning coffee cart rush and saunters over to a shaded park bench Sonny’s claimed for his own. As he watches Rafael walk along the path with two cups in hand and a surprisingly shy smile tugging at his lips, Sonny stifles an awed chuckle under his breath: coffee was always the way to Barba’s better side, and he can’t quite believe that he should be sitting here, outside the building where they spent so many of their days, waiting on the same man to court him in much the same way. 

There’s probably a metaphor to be made there, but Sonny’s too preoccupied with the singular bead of sweat rolling down the side of Rafael’s neck to make sense of anything beyond the salt he tastes on his own lips. He washes it down with a sip of coffee and gathers his bag and his limbs to make room (in his space and his life and his heart) for Rafael once more.

“So,” Rafael says more to his coffee than to Sonny, “Counselor, is it?”

Sonny shakes his head in disbelief; he can’t remember what he was expecting to face when he woke up this morning—after all, it’s been weeks since he’s known the comfort of predictable duties, and a reliable schedule longer still. Whatever he expected, it wasn’t this heat and it sure as hell wasn’t the familiar mischief in Rafael’s gaze staring back at him from across the bench.

“Could ask the same of you, couldn’t I?”

Rafael’s clearly pleased by the remark and the pointed tone with which it’s delivered. It’s not for naught either; Sonny’s come to understand that, before all else, it was his inability to keep his thoughts to himself that first ingratiated him with Barba, and Sonny’s not too proud to use it to his advantage now, especially not when he has so little else to leverage.

“Oh, don’t act like _ I’m _ the one with the big reveal here,” Sonny says with a calculated roll of his eyes. “I mean, you? Defending the bad guys? No offense Rafael, but I gotta say I’m a little surprised.”

Rafael turns his body towards Sonny then, uncrossing his legs and squaring his shoulders as if setting himself for a sparring match. If he wasn’t already melting from the sun’s high noon crest over the city, surely Sonny would be pulverized by the full force of Rafael’s attention

“First of all,” Rafael starts, “he’s barely fifteen and, unless your memory isn’t as sharp as it once was—which we both know isn’t true—you’d remember that I _ rarely _touched cases like this.” He brings the straw to his lips, but seems to think better of losing his momentum. “Secondly, it’s a favor. He’s one of my mother’s students. Trust me when I say there’d be far more to lose than my pride if I declined to represent him.”

Sonny looks out into the park, takes the time to sort through his thoughts, and watches as the last of the season’s tourists pour out from double-decker busses and yellow taxi cabs. He wants to let Rafael stew in this ambivalent moment the same way Sonny lamented in his absence for so many months, wondering if it was the circumstances or the obligations or just the cruel twists of fate that sent them both spiraling spectacularly towards their demise.

It’s not that Sonny feels he’s owed an apology, or even wants one for that matter, but still, it would be nice to hear that_ maybe _ he’s not the only one who was so affected by whatever this was between them—both before _ and _ after.

On the other hand, they’ve already wasted so much time and Sonny is reticent to let one more grain of sand slip through this particular hourglass, so he says, “Did you know?”

Rafael considers Sonny seriously, his furrowed brow casting short shadows over his cheeks, his eyes moving erratically from point to point on Sonny’s face searching for all the unasked questions, communicating wordlessly in the same way they learned to do across courtrooms and prison cells all those years ago. When Rafael’s eyes narrow, Sonny knows he’s been found out.

And really, was there ever any doubt he wanted to be?

“That you finally made the move or that you were prosecuting this case?” Rafael asks, apparently having decided to let the difficult questions lie dormant. Sonny just shrugs in response, fearful as he is that his words might fail him, or worse, reveal too much.

“I admit that I had my hopes on both counts,” he says wistfully before draining his coffee of its last watery dregs. “But it wasn’t until the other week when I was getting dressed and there you were, on my television of all places, standing behind Hadid looking so…” His eyes drag the length of Sonny’s form from oxfords to tie knot in a gesture so obvious, it puts color in both their cheeks. “Earnest. And maybe a little afraid.”

Sonny doesn’t protest the presumption. Even if he wanted to, he’d have no legs to stand on—not when Rafael is looking right at him, looking right _ through _ him, and turning over each and every one of the stones Sonny’s kept hidden for so long. As terrifying as it is to be sitting in the sun’s spotlight fully dressed, and yet, more vulnerable than he’s ever felt, Sonny somehow feels lighter, more free for it.

“That’s when I knew and, incidentally, when I decided to take this case.”

“Incidentally, huh?” Sonny scratches the back of his neck, runs a hand through his hair, needlessly smooths down the fabric on his thighs—anything to keep his wayward limbs from betraying his eagerness. “That really what you’re going with?”

“Sure.” Rafael bites on his lower lip, fighting to contain a smile. “Why not?”

When Sonny laughs then, it’s more of an unbelieving huff from a punch to the gut than anything else, but it’s enough to break through the tension that left Sonny feeling uncertain and exposed, and apparently enough of an invitation for Rafael to do exactly what Sonny’s been trying so very hard _ not _ to: reach out across the diminishing expanse and run his hand from elbow to shoulder to neck. His palm is cool from the coffee and welcomed on Sonny’s heated skin—it feels like a salve for his many decades-old wounds.

“Sonny,” Rafael’s voice breaks around the syllables; it’s as tender as touch of his fingertips. “I just want you to know, in case I never get the chance to say it again, I am _ so _ proud of you.”

Sonny can feel the words welling up right beside his unshed tears, years of unspoken confession and unsolicited praise and foolhardy adoration threatening to spill out into the dense air covering the city. He’s _this close _ to throwing caution to the wind and losing himself to whatever could be, when the stillness that’s settled around them is punctured by the obnoxious double-tone alert blaring from Sonny’s phone.

_ Dun dun. _

He grimaces, embarrassed and disappointed in equal measure. “That’s probably Carmen. I gotta get goin’ soon.”

“Ah yes, the infamous Carmen corral.” Rafael extracts his hand from expanse of skin with which it was preoccupied but lets his look linger. “I’m not so far gone that I don’t remember those days.”

Reluctant as they may be to abandon whatever just transpired between them, they both get up to take their leave—Sonny to Hogan Place, and Rafael to...Well, wherever it is Rafael goes these days. They never did get around to that part of the conversation, and Sonny’s shoring up the courage to ask about—

“Have dinner with me.” 

That Rafael should speak so plainly shouldn’t surprise Sonny in the least: Rafael was always _ so _deliberate about every decision he made, every word that left his lips, every action purposeful and pragmatic only up until the point it wasn’t. And yet, despite his intimate knowledge of such contrived gestures, or perhaps because of it, Sonny can’t help but feel charmed to be included in such certitude.

Nonetheless, Sonny’s no longer in a position in his life where he can afford to take chances on superficial whims or flights of fancy. He doesn’t possess the energy or the wherewithal or even, simply, the time for such frivolous notions of romance. Besides, he’s learned a great deal from the man stood before him, the unyielding need for admissible evidence perhaps chief amongst them, and he’s not above pressing for a full and irrefutable confession now that his heart demands it.

“You already bought me coffee, Raf. I think we can call it even.” 

Rafael rolls his eyes to match the sharp puff of his exhale, fixes Sonny with a look as if _he_ was the one keeping Rafael from a meeting in—Sonny glances at his watch—seventeen minutes, and not the other way around.

“I don’t know why you think this is a quid pro quo situation, Sonny, but that really wasn’t my intention in asking.”

“Oh no?” Sonny crosses his arms on his chest in false defiance and, as the thin fabric of his dress shirt stretches and sticks to the damp skin across his back, is made acutely aware of just how far in over his head he may be. “Tell me. What’s your intention then?”

“Are you really going to make me say it, Carisi?” Rafael throws his jacket back with a dramatic flourish and places his hands on his hips with all the bravado of young kid from the Bronx trying to make his way in a world that doesn’t want him to win.

It’s a gesture so familiar that Sonny can imagine him strutting around the courtroom now, both as that kid and the man he’s become. The image dislodges something in Sonny’s chest, cracks it clear in two and sends a bubbling joy up the back of his throat. Sonny’s so suddenly smitten, he has to stifle a smile as he says, “After four years of following you around like a dog with a bone? Yeah, you better believe I’m gonna make you say it.”

Rafael looks towards the sky.

Sonny waits.

Whatever Rafael was searching for in the hazy, mottled sky, be it fortitude or patience or audacity, he must find it in no small sum: he takes a large step into Sonny’s space, a deep breath, sets his jaw straight and says, “Have dinner with me, Sonny. Go on a date with me. Tell me about your cases and your life and the people you love...Everything I’ve missed in the past two years and the lifetime before that. Let me know you, Sonny, whoever you’ve become, whoever you will be—tonight, tomorrow, for as long and as often as you’ll let me.”

“Wow.” It’s a sucker punch if ever there was one, and causes Sonny’s body to recoil involuntarily, his knees going wobbly from the effort to keep steady. He recovers quickly enough (and he wouldn’t have to look far to find who taught him that, too). “That’s, uh, that’s a lot more than I thought I’d get out of ya, to be honest. You practice that?”

Rafael shrugs and takes another step closer. “Well, I haven’t been quite as busy as you. I’ve had some time to consider it.”

“Right, like I haven’t thought about it every goddamn day of my life.” 

_ Fuck this heat _, Sonny says to himself, pulling Rafael in by the belt loops. Sonny surely already looks a wrinkled, sweaty mess—he might as well make the most of it. “I just hope you’re not tryin’ to get me to go easy on you in court, Counselor.”

“Please, as if we won’t have this pled out by the end of the week.” Sonny censures him with a _ look_, which Rafael promptly dissipates with his hands, moving them up Sonny’s arms, landing just above the elbows with a gentle squeeze. Despite his coy machinations, Rafael _ does _ look proud and Sonny is humbled to be the reason for it. “So, is that a yes then?”

Sonny’s nose scrunches, his lips puckering in feigned consideration. He could delay this judgement into next week, but there’s no obfuscating the fact that, so long as he and his conscience could bear it, Sonny has always—Sonny _ will _always—say yes to this man. “Under one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Screw the restaurant. You’re coming over to my apartment and I’m making you _ the best _ Italian meal you’ve ever had.” And because Sonny takes his food _ very _ seriously and because he absolutely can not speak with such enthusiasm without his hands following suit, he slips them up from Rafael’s waist until he has two handfuls of soft middle. “Seriously Raf, you will lose your goddamn mind.”

Rafael isn’t bothered by such fervor in the slightest; he welcomes the heat of the day and Sonny’s errant hands with comparable amounts of aplomb. “Oh, I’m sure I will. But from what I know, Hadid’s a tyrant—do you really have time for all of that?”

“No,” Sonny says without apology, partly because the last thing he wants to be thinking about is his boss, and partly because he’s no longer in the habit of apologizing for his feelings or his desires or any calamitous implications thereof. “Not really. But some things are just worth it, y’know?”

Rafael smiles, modest and sweeter than even Sonny thought possible. It’s as brilliant as the sun shining overhead and warms him twice over.

“I do now.”

As they lean in ever closer, with palms resting on cheeks or ribcages or whatever small purchase of skin they could claim, and as their mouths and bodies and hearts meet not only for the first time, but for the first time bearing the weight of the day’s heat and two lifetimes of hope, Sonny thinks of the seasons changing and how he’s changed alongside them, the life he once had and the promises he made to himself and now, with the touch of their lips, to the man he’s so long admired.

Sonny thinks of these last dog days of summer, what with their infernal heatwaves and the challenges he’s been compelled to endure therein; he thinks of all the choices he’s made that led him into this career, into this park, into the arms of this brave man; he thinks of all the realities he imagined for himself and how, while not one of his guarded fantasies ended with a vicious sunburn or a sodden undershirt, nonesuch could compare to the extraordinary future unfolding before him.

Maybe he was wrong—maybe the summer’s not so bad after all.

Then again, watching the seasons change comes as naturally to Sonny Carisi as the love he feels growing in his heart, and perhaps it’s a fool’s errand to long for what he can’t hold in the palms of his hands, but with Rafael at his side and all the unknowable possibilities that might imply, Sonny can’t wait to see what wonders the crisp days and dark nights of autumn will bring.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it this far, THANK YOU FOR READING! I love and appreciate each and every one of you! Also, was the 'dun dun' too on the nose?? I just couldn't help myself oop
> 
> Shoutout to anyone who picked up on a couple references to my previous fics. If you'd like, you can find another one of [my ADA Carisi fics over here. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20580080)(I told y'all I've been pulling for this!)
> 
> If you'd like to chat barisi rights, carisi wardrobe, ADA Carisi, etc. etc., please feel free to hit me up over on twitter [@ashcart.](http://www.twitter.com/ashcart) x


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